Mask of Swords

by Jonathan Moeller

  “The fear of consequences,” said the Prophetess. “Yet there are not always consequences, are there? A clever man can escape consequences for his crimes. A strong man can defeat any retribution for his misdeeds.”

  “What does this have to do with your precious Marazadra?” said Mazael.

  “It is a wicked world,” said the Prophetess, “is it not?”

  “Yes,” said Mazael. “And you think your goddess will fix it?”

  “She shall,” said the Prophetess, “by bringing fear to the world.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” said Mazael.

  “Consider,” said the Prophetess. “The lords war endlessly among themselves, spilling blood for their greed and pride. The merchants cheat and scheme. The clergy of the Amathavian church are corrupt and hypocritical. The peasants are slothful and indolent. Do you know why?”

  “Because they’re not afraid?” said Mazael.

  “Yes,” said the Prophetess. “Fear alone makes men virtuous. Humanity has been the dominant race upon this world for far too long, and it has made us corrupt. We are without fear. We are too arrogant in our pride, and believe ourselves beyond consequences. When the goddess is reborn and her angels are at her side, they shall prey upon the wicked and the slothful. Fear will come upon man once more.” A note of fervor entered her otherwise calm voice. “All men shall fear the wrath and the judgment of the goddess…and in this new world, we shall be at peace, for no man will dare to be wicked.”

  “That,” said Mazael, “is the stupidest thing I have ever heard.”

  The Prophetess looked at him, and for a moment there was a glint of irritation in her green eyes.

  “Why is that?” she said.

  “Have you ever been a liege lord?” said Mazael. “Or even the lord of a small village?”

  “No,” said the Prophetess.

  “Pity. If you had, you would know that you can’t rule people entirely through fear,” said Mazael.

  “Your lords fear you,” said the Prophetess. “Earnachar was terrified of you.”

  “If you are a lord, you cannot let your vassals cross you,” said Mazael. “But they need hope in addition to fear. They need to know that if they abide by the laws, they will be rewarded and left in peace. Men cannot live on fear alone. They need hope as well. What hope does your goddess give them? That she will eat them last? Let men live without hope, and in time they will grow desperate enough to rise up against you.”

  The Prophetess shook his head. “A naïve view, Lord Mazael. You do not understand the wickedness of the human heart.”

  Mazael laughed.

  “Did I say something amusing?” said the Prophetess.

  “I am Demonsouled,” said Mazael, “the last son of the Old Demon. His blood fills me with the urge to fight, to kill, to slaughter and conquer and dominate. I’ve lived with that for forty years…and you think to lecture me about the wickedness of the human heart?” He looked at Rigoric. “Tell me, does your mistress descend into the sea to give the fish lectures about swimming?”

  The masked man made no response.

  “You may have the chance to put your theories into practice,” said the Prophetess.

  “You want to convert me?” said Mazael. “Why?”

  “I am the voice of the goddess, and Rigoric is her champion,” said the Prophetess. “You can be her regent, Mazael Cravenlock. Convert to her worship, and you can rule the world in her name.”

  “I heard that offer,” said Mazael, “from a far more effective tempter than you. I refused him, and I refuse you.”

  “You would not even need to shed any blood,” said the Prophetess. “Lord Gerald and Prince Hugh respect you and follow your lead. The other liege lords fear you too much to cross you. You could bring them to heel with little effort, and you could rule an orderly realm of virtue and obedience.”

  “No,” said Mazael.

  “I thought not,” said the Prophetess. “Fortunately, the goddess gives her servants many tools.”

  She reached into her robe and drew out a peculiar silver dagger. Its blade was about a foot long, and the silver had an odd, dull shine to it.

  “Do you like it?” said the Prophetess. “It is called a maethweisyr. A relic of the Imperium of the Dark Elderborn of old.”

  “If you wanted to cut my throat and have done with it,” said Mazael, “you could have spared me the speech first.”

  “I have something different in mind for you,” said the Prophetess. She turned the dagger over. “A maethweisyr had a very specific purpose. The Dark Elderborn recognized that certain kinds of blood had magical power. Blood, alas, goes bad so quickly. Therefore they needed a way to store the blood for future use. Hence, the maethweisyr.”

  “Blood,” said Mazael. He felt a flicker of alarm. “Is that what this is about? You want to use my blood for some magical purpose. Don’t. Lucan Mandragon did, and look what happened to him.”

  “Lucan Mandragon was a fool,” said the Prophetess. “He believed only in himself, and so the Old Demon led him to ruin. More, he sought to use your blood’s power for himself. I do not seek to use your power for myself.”

  She knelt, and in one smooth motion slammed the dagger into Mazael’s chest.

  He went rigid with pain, an agonized grunt escaping his clenched teeth. He had been stabbed before, several times, and knew what to expect, though it did not make the sensation any less painful. Waves of pain blurred through him like fire, and his breathing grew wet and heavy. The damned dagger had punctured his left lung. Rage filled him, and if he could have, he would have surged to his feet, ripped the dagger from his chest, and carved the Prophetess and Rigoric to pieces.

  But weakness filled his limbs, and Mazael could do nothing but tremble as the dagger sank deeper into his chest.

  “Ah,” said the Prophetess, and she tugged the blade free. Mazael let out a grunt and looked at the blade. His blood coated the maethweisyr, but as he watched, the blood seemed to sink into the metal, during the silver blade a dull crimson. It was as if his blood had infused the dagger’s very metal.

  “You,” croaked Mazael, his voice a rasp, “are a fool. You are…playing with dangerous…dangerous things.”

  “I am quite aware of that, thank you,” said the Prophetess. The wound began to burn and tingle as his Demonsouled blood healed it. It hadn’t killed him, and his Demonsouled nature would repair it, though the process would leave him exhausted. “But fear not, Mazael Cravenlock. Your blood shall serve the goddess. As shall your heart and mind and soul. I would prefer that you had given them willingly…but more coercive means are at hand.”

  She placed her left hand upon his chest, next to the wound, and something black and furred appeared on her fingers. At first Mazael thought a rat had climbed down her arm, but then he felt the tiny points of pressure.

  A heart spider.

  “The process rather scrambled poor Earnachar’s wits,” said the Prophetess. “I hope you shall be stronger.”

  The spider crawled forward, and then plunged into the wound. Pain exploded through him, and he strained against the chains, hoping the rage would give him the strength to break free.

  The Prophetess watched him, a small smile on her face.

  Mazael felt the spider’s legs curl around his heart, and then everything went black.

  Chapter 13: Surrender

  Sigaldra stood upon the wall, gazing to the north.

  “Another group,” said Talchar One-Eye, pointing.

  It was hard to see in the gathering gloom, but even with one eye, Talchar’s vision was keen. Bands of scattered horsemen galloped south, making their way to the walls of the village. Sigaldra could not tell if the horsemen were Mazael’s men, Adalar’s, or Tervingi horsethains. She had watched the battle at the edge of the horizon as Mazael drove off the Skuldari spiders, and then the horsemen had ridden away to the north. Were they pursuing the Skuldari, or was something else afoot?

  She wished Mazael had sent word.

&nb
sp; “That is a rout,” said Talchar in a quiet voice. “Seen it before. The horsemen ran into something they couldn’t defeat, so they’re fleeing back here.”

  “A rout?” said Sigaldra, shocked. Mazael and Adalar had ridden out with nearly a hundred and fifty horsemen. It would take a powerful force to overwhelm that many knights and horsemen. Had the Skuldari brought that many of their giant spiders? Or had Earnachar turned against Mazael at last? It was disturbing thought. A very disturbing thought. If Earnachar had been strong enough to defeat Mazael, he would have no trouble whatsoever destroying the final remnants of the Jutai nation.

  “The first group is nearing the gate,” said Vorgaric.

  “My lady Sigaldra,” said Timothy, his black coat stirring in the wind. She felt uneasy around the wizard, but if Earnachar attacked she would not refuse the aid of his spells. “Those are some of Lord Mazael’s armsmen.”

  “Should we admit them?” said Talchar. “They might have been infested by those heart spiders.”

  “I have a spell,” said Timothy. “I can detect the spiders within them, if they have been infested.”

  “If they are infected,” said Vorgaric, “do we kill them?”

  “We may have no choice,” said Sigaldra.

  “No!” said Timothy. “Forgive me, but I have prepared a potion that will expel the spiders from their bodies. If they were forced to take the spiders against their will, then they are innocent men, and Lord Mazael has no wish to kill innocent men.”

  “Can you cast your sensing spell from a distance?” said Sigaldra.

  “I believe so,” said Timothy. “If they wait below the gate, it should be adequate.”

  “Fine,” said Sigaldra. “Have them wait below the gate. If they’re free of the spiders, admit them.” If Earnachar was coming, Sigaldra would need every fighting man she could find. “If they’re not, admit them anyway, and give them the potion in the guise of wine.”

  “It shall be as you command, my lady,” said Timothy.

  Sigaldra glanced towards the gray tower of the keep. Perhaps she should rouse Liane and ask for her help. Her visions were always true, and they had been useful in the past. Sigaldra dismissed the idea. Liane still needed to rest from her last episode.

  But if the situation became dire enough…

  The horsemen reigned up before the gate and asked admittance. Timothy cast his spell and claimed that the men were free of the spiders. Sigaldra nodded, and Vorgaric admitted them. The men reined up, and Sigaldra spoke to them. She heard differing accounts of what had happened. The Skuldari raiders had been driven off. Mazael and Earnachar had been parleying, and then a score of soliphages had appeared from nowhere. Mazael and Earnachar both had vanished, and the knights had tried to fight off the soliphages. They had killed one or two, but the soliphages were too strong and wielded too much dark magic. Finally Lord Adalar had ordered a retreat, and the armsmen and knights had fled back to Greatheart Keep.

  As the sun vanished to the west and the sky darkened, more groups of knights and armsmen arrived. Timothy checked them one by one. Arnulf ordered his spearthains and swordthains to take up positions alongside the Jutai thains and militiamen, and Sigaldra permitted it. From the tales the returning men told, Sigaldra suspected that they would come under attack soon enough.

  Full night had fallen by the time two more horsemen came to the gate, their mounts breathing hard. Adalar sat in his saddle, his shield hacked to splinters, the war hammer in his right hand covered in blood and black slime. Sir Wesson rode at his side, his armor scratched and battered, his surcoat torn half to shreds.

  No other riders came with him.

  “Are they safe?” said Sigaldra. Timothy nodded, and Sigaldra descended from the rampart to the gate. Timothy followed her, as did Talchar, Vorgaric, and Arnulf.

  “My lady Sigaldra,” said Adalar, sketching a bow from his saddle. “I fear we may have to impose upon your hospitality for a little while longer.”

  “What happened?” said Sigaldra. “One of your men says one thing, and a second another. Where is Lord Mazael?”

  “We rode into a trap,” said Adalar with a scowl. He wiped off some of the slime from his hammer, cursed, and hung the weapon from his saddle. “Earnachar planned it from the beginning, the treacherous swine. Rigoric was leading a group of spider riders, and we drove them off. Just as the battle swung our way, Earnachar arrived with his horsethains and claimed that the Prophetess had tried to recruit him, but he had planned to betray her to Mazael all along.”

  “Lies,” said Sigaldra.

  “Yes,” said Adalar. “There was this…light. A spell of some sort. That is more your field of expertise than mine, Timothy. Once the light cleared, a score of soliphages appeared out of thin air and attacked.”

  Arnulf grunted. “One soliphage is a dangerous enough foe. A score would be…”

  “A slaughter,” said Adalar. “I killed one of them, and Wesson took another. But Earnachar’s horsethains joined the battle on the soliphages’ side, and we were overwhelmed. I called for the retreat and commanded the men to withdraw here. How many made it?”

  Sigaldra looked at Vorgaric.

  “Perhaps a hundred and ten,” said the blacksmith.

  “Damnation,” spat Adalar.

  “What of Lord Mazael?” said Sigaldra. “And Lady Romaria?”

  “I don’t know,” said Adalar. “Both Lord Mazael and Earnachar disappeared when the soliphages appeared. After…there was too much chaos. I couldn’t see what happened. The last I saw of Lady Romaria, she was trying to cut her way to Mazael.”

  “Are they dead?” said Arnulf.

  “They might be,” said Adalar. “Or captive. I don’t know.” He struck his leg with his fist. “I should have stayed. I…”

  “If you had stayed you would be dead,” said Wesson. “There were too many of them, and more Skuldari were coming from the north.”

  “What?” said Sigaldra. “More Skuldari?”

  “Footmen and spider cavalry both,” said Wesson. “I could not count how many. At least a thousand. Maybe a little less, probably more.”

  “Gods and ancestors,” said Sigaldra. A thousand Skuldari combined with Earnachar’s men would make an army.

  An army that could take Greatheart Keep and kill the Jutai.

  They could not run. The fighting men and the younger women might be able to escape, but the old and the maimed and the children would not be able to flee. She could send messages to the nearby knights and headmen asking for aid, but if Mazael was dead, the lords and headmen would do as they wished. Lady Molly was Mazael’s heir, but it would take time to establish her authority over the lords.

  By that time, Greatheart Keep would be ashes.

  “We have no choice,” said Sigaldra. “We must prepare for a siege.” She looked at Adalar. “Will you fight alongside us, my lord?”

  “Of course,” said Adalar.

  “You have no bond or obligation to us,” said Sigaldra.

  “Nevertheless, I will stay and fight,” said Adalar. “The Skuldari attacked my men as well, and I would see that repaid.”

  Wesson snorted. “And if we were to ride out into the dark, likely we’ll be eaten by spiders.”

  “And you, headman,” said Sigaldra to Arnulf. “Will you fight to defend Greatheart Keep?”

  Arnulf scowled. “Earnachar has betrayed us and attacked our hrould. Perhaps even murdered him.” He spat in the dust. “He will be called to account for that.”

  “I would advise,” said Timothy, “that we send out riders at once. To Castyard and Morsen and the other nearby villages. They need to be warned of the Skuldari and Earnachar’s rebellion, and we can ask them in the name of Lord Mazael to aid us.”

  “That will do us little good if Lord Mazael is dead,” said Sigaldra.

  “He may not be dead,” said Adalar, and there was a hard edge to his voice. He was loyal to Mazael, in the same way that a young thain was loyal to the first swordthain who had taught him to h
old a blade.

  “No,” said Timothy, “but the other headmen and lords do not know that yet. They may come. And Mazael may not yet be dead.” He looked at Sigaldra. “With your permission, I will ask for volunteers among Lord Mazael’s armsmen. Five, I think, should reach the nearest villages.”

  “Go quickly,” said Sigaldra.

  “It shall be done, my lady,” said Timothy with a bow, and he hastened away.

  “Then the rest of us must prepare for a siege,” said Sigaldra.

  Adalar frowned. “Have you been in a siege before, my lady?”

  She did not bother to answer. “We will have your men and Mazael’s rest first. They have fought the most recently. My militia and my thains will quarter near the gate, and we shall keep Arnulf and his thains in the square, ready to act as a reserve in case the enemy gains the walls.” She rubbed at her jaw. “We should keep Timothy in reserve as well, for the moment when his powers are needed the most. The women and children among my folk are organized into groups to carry supplies and arrows.” She shook her head. “Some of them will have to keep watch for the valgasts as well. I doubt they can climb over the wall, but they may try to tunnel into the village.”

  Adalar was silent for a moment, then he offered a deeper bow from his saddle. “I see you have endured a siege before, my lady.”

  “Several, Lord Adalar,” said Sigaldra. “The towns of the Jutai came under siege from the Malrag hordes many times.” She lifted her chin. “Yet the Jutai endured. If we faced the full wrath of the Malrag balekhans and shamans and survived to come to the Grim Marches, we can withstand the Skuldari rabble and Earnachar’s vermin!”

  She let her voice rise for the final words, and the Jutai thains and bondsmen near her nodded, and even some of Arnulf’s Tervingi. They had all been through too much to cheer. Yet they all knew her, and she knew them. They would not yield.

  She would save them, if she could. Perhaps the Jutai were doomed no matter what she did, and perhaps Earnachar would prevail. But by the ancestors, if the Jutai were doomed then she would make Earnachar pay for every drop of Jutai blood he spilled.